Minion Horde Raiding Party Leader
Have you seen my Minion Raiding Party?
My Minion Raiding Party kicked your butt
I love my Minion Raiding Party, but not all at once
Blood Dagger commemorating the Bloodletting 12th Anniversary
Deeply loves Dr Van Helsing despite the restraining order
I Celebrated Christmas 2018 in the Realm

Khellen's Biography

Ademre
Ademre exists far to the northeast of Temerant’s great nations, and as such does not constitute part of “The Four Corners of Civilization”. This land can be a cruel home that demands tenacity and fortitude from her children, the Adem. It is surrounded on three sides by the great Stormwal Mountains, and vast stretches of rocky, barren fields comprise the majority of its landscape. To the northwest there is only the sea, a constant source of howling winds and battering rain. While the summers are warm and border on pleasant, the winters are bitterly cold and are marked by surges of perilous tempests from the sea.

Life in Ademre is centered around a village’s school. While most possess their own low, sturdy abodes whose austere construction is dictated by the severe weather conditions, children and adults alike are clothed, fed, and instructed within these most sacred of havens. From a very early age, children are taught the foundational code of conduct that is the Lethani, a way of life that defines every choice, action, and thought of the people. Alongside this mental discipline, they are also trained to perfect the Ketan, a series of movements that encourage proper form when training and fighting. In every village, the school provides a singular education in the ways of their particular path.

It is customary for Adem children to first complete their education in the path of their village, and to then travel from one village to the next, learning the ways of each path in turn. Once fully trained in the most suitable path, a series of tests and challenges may be requested to determine whether an Adem is fit to “take the Red” and venture into the lands beyond. For those who choose this mercenary’s life beyond the Stormwal Mountains, it is most common and expected practice that all excess wealth be sent back to the school to provide for future generations.

The Village
We are an isolated clan, even by Ademic standards. We live furthest to the north, occupying a steep, mountainous vale inhabited by few other species. To the best of my knowledge, we have never accepted the presence of outsiders, even fellows of Adem heritage. It has always seemed strange to me that we do not share our ways with our people, for this is how I have always thought of them; this is how I have been taught to think of them. It is our heritage. They are our people. It is, however, my village, shared by my immediate kin. We do not teach others our path, though we are free to seek mastery of the paths of our sisters to the south.

This self-imposed seclusion limits trade to those few of us willing to travel back and forth between the villages, spending what little the school has amassed to provide her children with the necessities. Unfortunately, our supply of coin has been steadily dwindling as the seasons seem to grow harsher. The small, rocky gardens we rely on have not yielded harvests sufficient to our needs these past years. The animals grow thin, forcing our people to broaden their range and prolong their hunts. The young cry and the old seem downcast as all are forced to limit their meals, replacing sustenance with water and training.

I am the first in many years to complete my training here and have hoped to support my people since the first strenuous winter. My mother, Caeth, spent more than a decade beyond the mountains, fulfilling her duties as a mercenary and providing our school with enough funds to keep our people well-fed and thriving. She returned only to bring me into the world, much to the delight of our kin. It is strange, of course, for an Adem woman to ripen so late for the first time, and her “belated maturity” remains a source of good-natured banter among the elders of our village. She has so effectively provided for us, however, that no one even thinks to mock her further.

Having contributed so much herself, I had thought Caeth would approve- even encourage- my willingness to follow in her footsteps and take the red. It came as a surprise and disappointment to both myself and the elders when she expressed her expectation that I first master the paths of our relatives to the south. I have felt the weight of my kinsmen’s developing necessity for years now, and while I both adore and value my training ever so highly, the needs of my people come first in my eyes. If I could simply be allowed to take the red, to do as my mother before me, I could provide so much in return. The children would not cry; the elderly would not go hungry. Surely, she must know this. Why, then, does she hold me back?

Haert
It is my fourth year studying the way of the sword tree, and my training here is nearing completion. While at first my presence was met with mere toleration- even anger by some- the blooming of fellowship between myself and the village elder, Shehyn, eventually put most hesitancies to rest. Shehyn empathized with my intense devotion to home and kin, and offered to oversee my training herself once my demonstrations of the Lethani satisfied her.

Being the first in so many years to achieve mastery and venture forward had been no small affair. While we Adem take great pride in our comprehensive solidarity, taking on a member such as myself somewhat out of the blue would strain any family. How can one expect complete acceptance without offering the same in return? In my case, as it is forbidden for me or my immediate kin to share our path, my arrival here provoked more than a few flared tempers and soured feelings.

Again I found an ally in Shehyn. She remains sympathetic to my plight, understanding that this precedent was neither set by me nor possible to break. In all honesty, her unusual compassion in this regard continues to intrigue me. I have spent many sleepless nights wondering what insight she might truly have into my peculiar heritage. She seems much more knowledgeable than I have ever imagined an outsider to be, and I have yet to scrounge the courage to ask after the true extent of this knowledge as I do not wish the upset the balance of our relationship.

The teachings of the Letantha are very similar to my native path, as predicted, with but a few key aspects distinguishing them. It is frustrating to recognise these similarities and to be unable to explain the parallels to my fellow students. Eventually, while these students came to respect my ability and trust my character to some extent, the underlying wariness pains me still. I love the people of Haert as dearly as any I have known, Shehyn particularly. We Northerners have never shirked our duty to nurture the kinship that defines all Adem, and as such, I have spent these past four years holding true to these beliefs and demonstrating our shared identity.

The Man
He finds me outside the borders of Haert before the first snow of the season. I am training alone, as I often do, performing each evolution of the Ketan as slowly and deliberately as possible, perfecting even the most subtle of movements. So engrossed in this discipline, every sense attuned to each minute shift in form, I notice the intruder only when he speaks my mother’s name. The simultaneous touch of the stranger’s hand on my shoulder brings my sword to my hand, and I turn into the slight force he exerts to bring this weapon to bear. The honed edge of my blade grazes the pale skin of his neck, slicing through several strands of snowy hair in the process. There is no fear in the strange eyes that return my gaze; it is almost as if he does not realise the danger he is in.

“Caeth,” he says again, a small grin curling the corners of his mouth as he states her name with a familiarity I have never before heard. While he exhibits many of the distinguishing Adem traits- long, light hair, a fair complexion, pale eyes- it is this facial display of pleasure that marks him for what he must be: a foreigner, a barbarian. Even after four years of guidance and instruction, Shehyn only rarely graces me with such an intimate display of emotion, as is proper and civilised. My free hand speaks clearly in a gesture he is no doubt too uncultured to understand- Disgust. - and to my intense surprise, his smirk broadens in response.

“You haven’t aged a da-..” The man pauses, a quizzical look replacing obvious amusement as he takes a purposeful breath. He speaks the common tongue, and while I have learned this language to the same extent as all Adem it has been many years since last I practiced. I remain still, relaxed and ready to strike at the slightest provocation. His head tilts away from my blade, his brow furrowing. I watch his nostrils flare, the lids of his eyes drawing closed as he inhales, and feel an odd wave of self-consciousness as it becomes clear he is identifying me by smell alone.

“You must be hers then. I always wondered why she left.” Despite the quiet menace the man exudes, I find myself curious. Caeth had spoken so little of her time beyond the Stormwal Mountains; she had grown increasingly averse to recounting these experiences as I neared unity with our path. It is obvious that this man knew her then, and intimately. Much to the chagrin of our fellows, she had never taken much physical interest in those around her, despite the Vaevin that so commonly accompanies her level of prowess. Knowing this, it is fascinating to consider the possibility that she had found some measure of enjoyment- or at least contentment- with this alien. It is very uncommon for one of our own to engage with a barbarian; the mere consideration of this taboo is curiously intriguing.

“Did she ever mention who fathered you?” Faintly hued orbs meet mine before narrowing, the smirk deforming his thin lips once more. I have, of course, heard of this “father” figure the barbarians are known to believe in. The Adem are not ignorant of the cultures surrounding them, although this particular conviction remains one of the most foolish in our eyes. Women ripen naturally upon reaching maturity; males have nothing to do with the birth of a child. This is why women have always been recognised in our society as superior in both combat and consciousness. Men do not have such an outlet for their Vaevin, and the accumulation of this anger renders them prone to outbursts of rage and poor decision making. This is the main reason only females reach elder status in our villages: men are simply too weak-willed to lead.

It takes me a moment to fully dissect the question, and by the time I realise what he has asked he appears to have recognised his mistake. His eyes roll upwards, lazily focusing some distance beyond the bridge of his nose as he raises pale fingers to his temple. He looks wholly put out, and my indignation over the man-mother inquiry devolves back into simple curiosity. He does not conform to any Ademic standards, but his obvious understanding belies sense. Ademre consists of one protected people; the individuals making up her population remain both politically and philosophically segregated from the whole of Temerant, electing to isolate their unique civilization from those uncivilised nations encompassing them. It is forbidden to enlighten the primitives beyond our borders, so how is it that this man recognises his own folly?

Suddenly, so fast that I do not even see him move, the stranger’s hand is gripping my sword. His bleached digits coil around the blade itself, drawing crimson rivulets down its whetted edge. A dull, throbbing shudder emanates from my gut, as if from a blow. My gaze flicks to his other hand, to his legs… nothing else has moved. I step back into Chasing Stone, hardening my stance as I withdraw my blade. I make no effort to keep from harming him further, and he reacts to the deepening gash with a shudder of his own. I am sure that he does not physically incite the second bout of painful convulsions in my abdomen, but this episode comes as less of a surprise and my stance does not falter again.

“A’kethsis.. you dare!” The man snarls in a sudden rage, reaching once more for the shining blade. I struggle to maintain a steady grasp on the hilt of my pride and birthright as the corded leather shaft trembles in my hand, pulsing wildly with an energy not my own. I bring my left hand to Rhintyr’s pommel, my right foot sliding weightlessly rearward and bending at the knee to complete Climbing Iron. My familiarity with each aspect of the Ketan is absolute, and I draw strength from the thrumming pommel of the weapon enhancing each stance. With a detached sense of surprise, I realise that the shuddering of my frame, now consistent, is emanating from the blade itself. There is something different about the Rhintyr in my hands; there is something wrong.

The barbarian surges forward. Without thinking I drive the blade in a sweeping slash, my left palm guiding the sword with smooth certainty through its deadly arc. My retracted right foot propels my body forward and I deftly avoid his outstretched arms. The blade slips through the silken clothing of his side to deeply lacerate the tender skin beneath, and a stream of new blood stains Rhintyr’s edge. I know beyond any semblance of doubt that the wound I have inflicted will prove fatal if left unchecked, and I relax back into Chasing Stone after pivoting back to face the aggressive intruder.

My steady gaze provokes another snarl, but he does not approach me again. After taking several moments to weigh his options, the man simply bows his head and growls once more. He reaches slowly downward and towards his un-wounded side, and for a moment I fear he has drawn a weapon. Instead, he sweeps the hem of his cloak about his person and dissolves into thick, inky smoke. Despite decades of training, I simply cannot keep the astonishment from my face as each tendril drifts towards the hard ground and begins to dissipate. I maintain Chasing Stone, completely unsure of what to expect, long after the last of the sooty mist has disappeared. I strain every sense at my disposal, attempting to discern his whereabouts, all to no avail. Finally, I let Rhintyr fall to my side and relax my stance.

I move to lean against a nearby rock, contemplating this incredible interaction. I remove a thick cloth that hangs loosely from the back of my belt and make to begin cleaning Rhintyr. To my utter confusion, I find the blade pristine. The sword still trembles faintly in my grasp, though I am relieved to finally realise that the subsequent convulsions have ceased. A tension I was not wholly aware of relaxes at this, and I slump awkwardly against the curve of the large rock at my back. Trembling muscles lower me gently to the ground and I remain seated, alert but pensive, until the beginnings of dusk stain the sky.

Eventually, a soft flicker draws my gaze back to Rhintyr, the sword resting serenely upon my crossed legs, and my breath catches in my throat. Six beautiful, glowing runes appear to have been etched into the fuller of the blade. I watch them for a time, their hue shifting gradually from a familiar inky blackness to the pure crimson of blood, and finally settling on a strange, rich amber. I reach forward with quivering fingers and caress the gleaming fuller…

Somewhere deep in my mind, deep in my very soul, a voice I do not know quakes throughout my being:

What we see now is the vision of the incredible flying Malek. His body is struck in multiple spots, one wrist barely damaged (to Malek’s thinking) despite the moderate trauma to the internal structure, and his groin kicked, he is launched through the air to make a not-so-smooth forward somersault. Having been in many, many dangerous situations, the instinct to tuck his head and roll his shoulders persists and allows the burly man to land flat out rather than on his neck or shoulders which could have been a more dangerous proposition indeed.

The groin strike. Some males may cringe and duck, reaching instinctively for their precious goods as though they, too, feel the pain. Sympathy for the sudden strike and the like. In this situation, whether it’s Malek’s unique physiology, the continued perpetuation of a stereotype about how bad it is to be struck in the nethers, or the fact that her foot has managed to separate individual testicles without actually crushing one, Malek feels a sharp pinch of skin hammered between a foot and his pelvic bone but feels none of the nausea indicated by a direct strike to an individual tender organ. In fact, the worst thing to happen from this entire encounter is the bump to his chest which first forces the air from his lungs like an impacted billows, followed by the sudden stop on the hard ground that further stuns his diaphragm and makes breathing, for the nonce, a foregone conclusion.

This all sucks, yes, but Malek is a fighter. A killer. And he is as much Beast as he is Man with a single goal in this encounter: blood. He doesn’t even need a lot. There are few, if any, opponents that walk the Realm who could best Malek unscathed, especially when the Beast begins to rise within him.
The pause on the ground is nonexistent. Malek hits and follows the impetus of his already shifting body to force powerful legs underneath him. Further perpetuating this momentum, he pushes hard the moment his heavy boots hit firm and sends himself into another headlong roll that brings him to his feet a few body lengths away from the female. Now, if she has followed through, she’s likely to be surprised by the sudden change in momentum when Malek, once again, plants his feet and reverses direction. With an incredible sense of spatial location, he rolls his shoulders and torso to regain the benefit of actually facing her but stops completely a bit out of reach.

Eyes hard on the woman, he presents her with a crooked grin, chipped teeth visible beneath scarred and battered lips. Hmmn… A half-hearted, one-sided shrug follows when Malek’s left shoulder creeps up to nearly touch his ear. He presents his palms to the side in the classic ‘oh well’ or ‘whaddya gonna do’ gesture. The hypodermic has been dropped somewhere in the scuffle. It’s not strictly necessary… Malek stalks in at a sedate pace, his center of gravity low and balance on the balls of his feet allowing for any rapid directional change.

Malek trails his hand on the ground near him, quite obviously pulling a handful of dirt and detritus into his palm and stalking in.

See, MAYBE Malek could have continued to talk to the girl, try to convince her of the just nature of his cause. The altruism and blah blah fvckin’ blah. Too much work. Too much… yeah. He’d rather just bring it to blows and let the dice tumble, the cookie grumble, and the pieces land however they will. It’s so much more fun this way…

The long and the short of the issue is that malek is NOT a technically trained fighter. He’s never been brought to a dojo and taught to strike properly, or instructed about how to properly position his body for the most leverage or most advantageous strike. What he DOES have going for him is actually two-fold: he has been in a LOT of fights. Whether this is based on his attitude or the fact that he is unlucky is irrelevant. Simply put, you get beat in the head a lot, eventually your head breaks or becomes more dense.

He feels his heel slam into the ground, missing the relocated foot soundly but it causes no major worry, only a brief jarring impact through his joints. Malek is not disheartened in the slightest when the female drives her palm with skill toward his wrist. He cannot see the strike as her body serves as a proper shield for it, but he can see her shoulder flex from his peripheral vision and that sixth sense, second sight, or whatever instinct that fighters develop over time understands the concept, if not the actual execution of the maneuver. Thus, contact between hand and wrist is made but, rather than attempting to continue to drive through and exacerbate the blow, Malek allows the impact to cause permutation through reflection, sending his hand flying outward with only a few, percussion-numbed digits to show for it. Hey, maybe a greenstick fracture or two, but those are of no bother. After all, bones break on a nearly daily basis, in Malek’s experience.

The more dangerous maneuver, though, is the stranger’s attempt to grab onto Malek’s other hand, to control the momentum of his own movements. Sure, why not? He’ll allow it… for now. So, he feels her tight grip wrap about the limb, momentarily taking control of that small part of his body. Allowing her to accelerate existing impetus. This, after all, is what Malek wants, yes? To be in close where more important weapons can be used. --- Malek’s back curls inward on itself, erector spinae flexing and tugging as his abdominal muscles extend and the triplicate trapezius muscles prime themselves via tension. His entire body, it seems, snaps of a sudden, having reared back like a coiling viper only to spring forward, launching the hard, bony ridge of Malek’s forehead toward Khellen’s face, more namely, toward the hard, bony ridge covered by sculpted soft tissue that makes up the protuberance of her nose.

Of course, Malek is rolling and curving his wrist at the same time, attempting to get the hypodermic to penetrate into her body.

The slightly shaggy, unkempt man furrows his brow as he stares at the woman he has approached. She MUST be a demon, right? She seems to match the criteria and the scent. Maybe it's a supernatural scent. Or maybe it's some other part of his brain, latent and cunning, that collects context clues and information that Malek himself does not consciously understand. Perhaps the Beast nestled always growling and attentive just at the edge of Malek's peripheral mindscape, can read these things. Calls to similar creatures? Yeah, none of this is conscious thought... only the fact that Malek needs this woman's blood. Not a huge amount. Just a vile. For the contest.

The statement isn't finished as Malek moves forward with surprising speed, making three simultaneous motions in order to attempt to gain his advantage and his blood. First, he stomps his right heel down sharply toward the top of the woman's foot. The distraction.

Second, he snakes a hand, now that the distance is closed, around to slap at the woman's rump. Rude? Absolutely. Distraction from the distraction.

Third, and hopefully unseen, Malek tries to slip the thin hypodermic needle into the woman's abdomen and extract a measure of blood. It is a dexterous series of motions... perhaps enough?

A contest? Malek is always ready for a contest of wits and will. A contest of fist and skill. A contest of strategy... and of all kinds of other adjectives and adverbs and other descriptors that are not entirely important at the moment. Nay... Not important at all. Sufficient to say, his 'leader', (read one time mate... perhaps again) has sent the call to her little group to procure a specific set of items for the sheer inanity of it.

Malek is no subtle creature, most times, but he has his moments, yeah? So, hypodermic in hand, he walks up to this stranger who smells... dark. "D'nate s'm blood? Coul' save'uh lil dem'nette who's bleed'n't death, yeh?"

Khellen just stole $0.00 from you!
It wasn't the first time that this particular entity had stolen from the darkly crowned woman, and Will supposed that it wouldn't be the last, either. Oddly enough, either instance did not bring forth anger or some form of annoyance. Oh, no. Instead, amusement brought a quirking of the lips into something akin to a bit of a grin and words left her in playful manner."If ya wanted t'feel me up tha' badly, luv, all ya gotta do is say so. Ain't no need t'keep pretendin' ya wanna steal from me if'n ya want t'grope m'arse." Perched upon one side of her lips lay a lit bit of twisted, rolled up goodness, and as she inhales, Will takes a moment before turning her head and exhaling the sweet, thick smoke in direction opposite of the woman. No need to be rude about it, after all.

Peeking her head around the corner of the dungeons, from the cell she escaped, Josie looked quick for a guard. Not seeing one she nearly sprinted to the cell where Khellen had been stuck, giggling as she looked through the bars. "Looks like you could use some help, now." Grinning she stuck her toy wand in the lock of the cell, easily springing it open and taking a step back. "Don't hurt too many guards on the way out!"